Giving Your All

by Allan Price

It would have been wrong to call it a café and to be honest, nobody did. To its regulars, like Dennis, it was 'The Caff,' plain and simple with no frills. It served instant coffee, buckets of muddy coloured tea and a definitive range of food. There was no attempt at cheeriness; it was a purely functional place where the food was simple to prepare and the tabletops easy to wipe clean.

Best of all, there were no children. It did not cater for them nor tolerate their raucous, nerve-jangling screams and their impatient, shattered mothers: McDonald's in the High Street had that dubious pleasure. Without them a curious calm had settled like a comfortable dust over its regulars: mainly men in their 50s and 60s who sat around reading, sipping tea and talking absentmindedly, without interest or attachment.

Had the café been situated anywhere in the Mediterranean, the tables would have been littered with cards or checkers and half-empty wine glasses but this was England and instead they held condiments, greasy plastic tomatoes and copies of the Racing Times and The Sun. Still, Dennis liked it because it was predictable but he also hated it for the same reason. He found an ever-increasing need to be in places where he could find peace and quiet on his own terms. At home, Helen would try to keep him busy because she thought he would give in to his feelings and become morose. She confused his need for space and quiet with depression and he could never convince her that he needed time for thought. Consequently he spent most of his time at home in the shed or in the toilet.

It was nine-thirty, an allotted time. The door 'chinged' open and Brian came in, a burly figure wrapped in a blue car coat, with a rolled newspaper in one pocket and his hand in the other.

"Dennis." Was the single-word greeting.

"Brian." Was the acknowledgement.

Brian ordered tea, pulled the newspaper from his coat pocket and sat down opposite Dennis. "Bloody cold," he said shuddering. "Brass monkeys," agreed Dennis. Brian unfolded his paper and began to read the back page. As if this action, in itself, was an agreed signal, a kind of reverential silence fell between the two men. Dennis lit a cigarette and after a short time Brian spoke. "Fuckin' lost again I see," he said, shaking his head as he did so. Dennis nodded in agreement. "Useless, they are, our bloody dog could do better, at least he could fetch the ball out the back of the net." Brian chuckled which made him cough violently. "Give us a fag mate," he said, "I need to loosen this." He thumped his chest with his fist and Dennis offered him a cigarette, which he took and lit, drawing in the smoke deeply as he did so. "So what's on the cards for today?" said Brian, folding his paper and proffering it to Dennis. Dennis shook his head and Brian stuffed the paper back into his pocket. "Thought I'd fly over to Paris for lunch and spend the evening having wild, deviant sex in a shady bordello, you?" "Water skiing on the canal, followed by wild deviant sex with the Vicar's daughter under a bridge somewhere," he replied.

"When were you last wild and deviant Brian?" asked Dennis. "1945," said Brian wistfully. Dennis checked his watch. "Bugger me, it's only 21.30 now," he said, with fake gravity, "you can get too much of that sort of thing, you need to slow down a bit." "Can't mate, I'm totally rampant for it, ever since I came out of string vests last Christmas."

Brian stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. "What are you gonna do today then?" "Go down the job centre I s'pose," replied Dennis, "though I'm sick to death of the place; it's full of zombies and no-hopers." "Like you and me you mean?" Added Brian. "We're not like them and you know it: we were made redundant after giving thirty bloody years to that firm and that qualifies us as something different." "Only in your eyes mate, don't think for one minute that it qualifies you for anything different as far as they're concerned." Countered Brian. 'They' was the collective noun Dennis and Brian used to describe anyone who was even remotely connected with their jobless state, from the government down through the echelons of management and now to those who occupied a desk at the job centre. They'd become privileged dirt as far as the two friends were concerned and their bitterness knew no bounds. "Same patter every bloody day," said Dennis. " 'Now then, Dennis, I have several positions which you may find interesting: there's a waiter's post at the Red Lion, a computer trainee is needed at the Sawmill and there's a jockey wanted down at the stables if you can lose eight stone by next Thursday.' " "Don't!" warned Brian, "it'll get you nowhere." "I like being cynical, it's the one joy left in life ... apart from Prozac."

"Relax, something'll turn up sooner or later," said Brian. "Bollocks, replied Dennis vehemently, "who are you kidding we're over fifty and we're trained to do one thing and we're too long in the tooth to change. We're on the sodding scrap heap and you know it. This country owes us and it's not willing to put its hand in its pocket and cough up. How much redundancy pay did we get after giving thirty years to that factory: five thousand miserable quid. Is that really all we were worth?"

Brian got up from his seat and picked up the mugs from the table in his big fist and looked at Dennis. "Another cup?" he asked staring Dennis straight in the eye. Dennis read the message. "Why not," he answered, "let's push the boat out." Brian grinned and moved to the counter to order.

"Two more please Mary," he said. Mary was smiling as ever: a motherly figure in her plastic apron, her hands red from too much hot water. She deftly poured tea from a fresh pot into two clean mugs and frowned as she said, "Is he alright?" Nodding her head towards Dennis. "Not really Mary. To be honest, he worries me: wallowing in self-pity and bitter as hell he is." "Poor lamb," she sighed, "too proud for his own good that one." "Proud?" queried Brian,"I'd hardly say that: broken more like." "No love, it's pride, won't allow him to accept what's happened, it's a kind of arrogance, I've seen it too many times to be mistaken, you mark my words." Brian paid for the teas and returned Mary's warm and knowing smile before moving back to the table.

"There we go mate, get that down yer neck." "Thanks," said Dennis and he leant forward over the table signaling that he was about to say something in confidence. "Listen Bri, I'm sorry, you know, for going on like that, I know you're in the same boat and I don't mean to burden you with more of the same." "That's okay mate, a problem shared is a problem doubled, that's what I say." "Thanks mate, you're a brick ... gotta get it off my chest to someone." Brian looked quizzical. "Don't you talk about this stuff with Helen, Dennis?" he asked. "Not really," said Dennis, "you know how it is, after all twenty years you tend to avoid conversations that might turn into arguments. I think she's lost her patience with me and I don't want to get into something that will hack her off any more than she is already."

Brian leant over the table and gently patted Dennis on the back of the hand. "I know," he said. To anyone witnessing the scene it would have gone unnoticed but as a gesture it was almost too much for Dennis to bear: Brian was seventeen stone and as tough as old boots but his touch was so full of warmth that it might easily have been his mother's. The moment touched Dennis beyond his expectation. It was probably the first time anyone had shown true compassion and understanding towards his feelings for a long time and he'd not only forgotten how it felt but also how to react. Consequently, he recoiled under Brian's touch and withdrew his hand to safety beneath the table. Nonetheless it still glowed, the warmth spreading slowly throughout the rest of his body.

Suddenly, Dennis needed his mother more than at any other time in his life. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of worthlessness and he knew that Brian sensed it too and that made matters doubly worse. "Come on," said Brian, "to hell with the Job Centre ... we're going to the pub."

Copyright © Allan Price 2003